Why Writers Write

How do I know I was born to write? That it’s my passion? Because I’d do it for “nothing.” Because—though I’m envisioning that one day I’d have the validation of publishing a story, I’m not imagining those unknown, imaginary readers. What I’m picturing is my sister and my husband who know when I’m about to finish a story, and I’m telling them, “It’s almost done…you almost get to read it.” And, of course, to have my sister give me her encouragement and enthusiasm, “I can’t wait.”

To spend days writing a single scene—and then to have your instructor or your family member tell you that a certain scene made them feel so much—at last, the work is worth it. The amount of time and energy spent on selecting every word, every image, and then rewriting it, and rewriting it, until you’re happy with the words on the page (“Art is selective,” O’Connor says)—as is the process of writing the story. As Dubus puts it:

An older writer knows what a younger one has not yet learned. What is demanding and fulfilling is writing a single word, trying to write le mot juste, as Flaubert said; writing several of them, which become a sentence. When a writer does that, day after day, working alone with little encouragement, often with discouragement flowing in the writer’s own blood, and with an occasional rush of excitement that empties oneself, so that the self is for minutes longer in harmony with eternal astonishments and visions of truth, right there on the page on the desk, and when a writer does this work steadily enough to complete a manuscript long enough to be a book, the treasure is on the desk.

If the manuscript itself, mailed out to the world, where other truths prevails, is never published, the writer will suffer bitterness, sorrow, anger, and, more dangerously, despair, convinced that the work is not worthy, so not worth those days at the desk.

But the writer who endures and keeps working will finally know that writing the book was something hard and glorious, for at the desk a writer must try to be free of prejudice, meanness of spirit, pettiness, and hatred; strive to be a better human being than the writer normally is, and to do this through concentration on a single word, and then another, and another. This is splendid work. As worthy and demanding as any, and the will and resilience to do it are good for the writer’s soul. If the work is not published, or is published for little money and less public attention, it remains a spiritual, mental, and physical achievement; and if in public, it is the widow’s mite, it is also, like the widow, more blessed.

Andre Dubus, Meditations from a Movable Chair

While writing—there is always the fear that your work will amount to nothing—and as Dubus writes, you tell yourself that even if you do not succeed, you would have written regardless. Sometimes, even that thread of hope is what keeps you going.

My husband jokes about how I should be writing the next Da Vinci Code so he can quit his job and be a bum for the rest of his life (then again, maybe he’s not joking). A book that’s plot-driven, so millions of people will read it. I tell him that it’s against my principles as an aspiring artist to write only for the purpose of entertaining (I read somewhere about the distinction between “Popular Fiction” and “Literary Fiction”; in the former, the writer is writing to please the reader; in the latter, the writer is writing for himself). I tell Lee, however, that if he wants, why doesn’t he write the next bestseller? “You write it, I’ll be happy to edit it for you. Take the next ten years to do it—little by little.” He pauses, as if genuinely considering the idea. “All I need is a good plot—like The Matrix or something.” (He’s so cute when he talks like that.) Then I smile. “You don’t have the discipline and patience to be a writer. Can you even sit at the desk to write a paragraph?” He doesn’t say anything, so I’m guessing he concurs.

Granted, at my Technical Writer job last year, we had a softball forum in which Lee shared about his infamous “crap story” (it’s too awful to include in this blog). It was so disgusting that I showed it to my co-worker, another Tech Writer, so he’d get a laugh out of it (guys like that stuff, right?). I was surprised by my co-worker's reaction. He walked into my office and said, “Lee is a pretty good writer. Did he ever consider writing? He was so detailed, descriptive [in telling the crap story]—he even had suspense…”

I’m going off on a tangent now.

It’s Friday morning. Let the revising begin…